You’d think I was justified in my annoyance when my labeled oat milk kept disappearing—especially with my dairy allergy. So, I got petty and filled a carton with toothpaste and baking soda.
But the next day, I heard gagging in the break room. It wasn’t an anonymous thief—it was Clara, our new hire. She blushed, rushed to the sink. My stomach dropped.
Clara was struggling. She’d taken the job to support her brother and was rumored to even skip meals to save money. My irritation blinded me—I never considered that desperation, not carelessness, might be at play.
Later, I felt so guilty I approached her. She apologized, voice low: “I couldn’t afford groceries this week. I thought a splash wouldn’t matter.” Suddenly, my prank felt monstrous.
I offered to buy her lunch. Over coffee and sandwiches, we spoke of life, hidden struggles, and the masks people wear. And the oat milk? It never vanished again—not because of scare tactics, but kindness.
Sometimes, what feels like a small battle reveals something bigger: compassion nourishes much more than vengeance ever could.